Picard's Contest
by Steve2
Summary: Captain Picard has proven time and again that he will do almost anything to keep the peace and stave off war. But will he be able to do it again this time? Especially with his rotten, no-good, two-timing, boot-lilcking brother?
1. Chapter 1: Off we go

**Introduction** : In the mid-1980's I went to a book convention and saw my first piece of fan fiction. Someone had merged Doctor Who with Star Trek. And they were selling it! Well now, I thought, I can do that. So years later once ST:TNG began running, I had an idea. I would write a fan fic story and sell it! I could do that. How hard could it be? As it turned out: very hard. Oh, not the writing part: that was easy. It was the selling the story. It seems there are these nasty things called "copyright laws" that protect the original creator's works. Needless to say, I never sold anything once I found out about these laws, but I did finish writing this story, plus its follow-up.

Then I shelved the story in the 1990's, committing it to diskette. Yes, a diskette. It would be fine, I thought. Hah! Digital degradation happens. Diskettes are toast. The hard copy was all I had left. I scanned it in, converted it to a few different formats for me to work, and viola. Here we are.

I have since done a little editing on this, not much. The two Star Trek stories are my original fan fics. The second one is being worked on as well and should be posted shortly after this one completes. This story has a grand total of six chapters.

Special thanks to Carlos Sandoval, for whom this project would have stalled in a previous life but for him. Too cool for words.

 **Disclaimer** : This is an amateur fan publication and is not intended to infringe on the rights of Paramount Pictures or any other holders of copyrights on STAR TREK.

Chapter 1: Off we go into the Wild Black Yonder!

"Captain's never-ending log: 47457.6. Having completed a boring, yet necessary (meaning: somebody-had-to-do-it) investigative studies of the Hubbub-Mondo-Manco system, we are returning to Federation space for our next assignment before shore leave at Station 142. We return with somewhat good news. The Hubbub-Mondo-Manco's sun is beginning to shift on its axis causing undo gravity stress on the planets, but of the two class-M planets in its orbit, the gravity will not be a problem for roughly another 15,000 years. Starfleet has been informed of this and they have authorized the planet for colonization. Even as I record this, transport ships are already on their way."

Jean-Luc paused his video diary and sat back in his chair, contemplating if he should add a comment about the colonists being poor bastards to draw that assignment to go to a world that was going to die, or if he should just keep it mum for now to maintain deniability. As is, he was pretty sure Starfleet did not read the entire report on the system or they would have noticed that the gravity swells had already decimated the closest planet to the sun in that system and the resulting destruction of the planet basically left planetary debris on an outward vector which meant that the two M-class worlds were likely to have some impacts. Ah well, it's not like there weren't other colonists waiting to find their own world and proclaim themselves kings, queens, emperors, and whatever else they had in mind.

Jean-Luc's thoughts were drawn away from that subject as a new email popped into this inbox.

"Computer. Open new email," Jean-Luc ordered.

"Really?" the computer replied. "You can't even use a mouse to open an email, or even touch the panel to open it? How the hell did you ever become Captain of a starship? Did you win a contest or something?"

"Enough back talk, computer. Just open the email."

"Yes, dear," the computer replied testily. "But don't think this conversation is over."

The message displayed and Jean-Luc spent several minutes deciphering its contents. He then spent several more minutes deciphering his deciphering skills to ensure they were working correctly. He sighed and resumed his video diary, mentally steeling his voice and his optimism so his future videos would convey an idealist Starfleet Captain instead of showing what he really thought for this endeavor.

"Starfleet has just issued orders for our next mission. It seems that we are to host the first ever Intergalactic Comedy Contest. This is a duty in which I look forward to as I've always believed that a little humor goes a long way to establishing peace between various factions and races. It's not like the last attempt to do something like this resulted in the city of Kneshia on Molotov-4 being bombarded from orbit by an angry Betazoid contingent of professional hecklers. No, not at all.

"Yes, well. The fact is, the Enterprise has been chosen to host this event which I am sure will uplift the spirits in the crew, especially Mr. Data who Starfleet Intelligence has strongly suggested be offered the spot of emcee. I must admit even I am feeling somewhat elated. This is the type of assignment I can enjoy: no Borg to worry about, no Gorns or other nasty races taking pot shots at us. This is a cushion assignment and I don't think anyone can disturb it."

A buzzer interrupted. "Riker to Captain Picard."

Jean-Luc pressed the pause button again on his video diary. Then pressed another button which started his personal tea maker making his programmed Earl Gray, hot. Silently cursing, he pressed another button and was rewarded with a soft beep. "Go ahead, Number One," Picard returned.

"We're picking up some peculiar communications from three billion kilometers out."

'What the heck does that mean?' Picard thought. "What type of communication?"

"We're not sure. If I didn't know any better, I'd swear personnel on two ships were having a religious argument."

"Number One, you've attended religious discussions before."

Mr. Riker cut him off, "With all due respect, sir, this is not a discussion. This is an argument."

Capt. Picard threw on his Dixon Hill persona, thought it over for a moment, came up with no inspiring thoughts, went back to being _just_ a mere interstellar starship Captain and said, "On my way."

He rose from his seat, tugged his tunic down as only a captain could and walked out of his ready room and onto the bridge. Immediately a musical score began with the Captain's voice narrating an annoying little spiel. "Space, the final..."

"Belay that, Mr. Worf," said the Captain with a wave of his hand.

As instructed, Mr. Worf cut the music with a flick of a button, darkly muttering, "Captains are supposed to have cascading music. Other Captains have music. Why can't this one..."

"On screen, magnification 10," instructed the Captain, ignoring his head of security.

"Ah... sir," Commander Riker began. "We can't; we haven't paid this month's cable bill yet."

Capt. Picard put the cold eye on his first officer and asked, "Did we pay our audio bill?"

Riker stood straight, chin out and beard in full view. "Yes, sir!"

"Audio then."

Almost immediately, ear-splitting shouting could be heard.

"Yoos can't say that about my god, ya gutter rat!" screamed a somewhat female voice.

"Can so, can so! Yer god sucks eggs!" came a male voice.

"Decrease volume, Number One!" Captain Picard shouted to his First Officer, trying to cut into the audio maelstrom.

"This is the lowest setting, Captain!" Riker yelled back, his hands over his ears.

"Yoos better take that back—or so help me..."

"What? What are you gonna do?! Spit at me?! Or use your laser cannons on my helpless vessel? Do you even know how? Here, let me show you how it's done, ya swamp gnat-rat!"

"Sir," Data began in a monochrome way that subtly irritated his VGA superiors during a lull in the audio attack. "It appears that the two ships are now firing on each other. Correction. It is now only one ship that is firing on the other."

"Are we within range to put it on non-cable viewer?"

"We are now, sir," Data replied.

"Then put it on view," instructed Commander Riker.

Obediently Mr. Data displayed the image of two very similar-looking rectangular transports (no surprise since they had both been purchased by Honest Carl's Used Spaceships Emporium, who had in turn gotten them from a fire sale from the Ferengi, not that he was going to admit that), one of which was firing these really cool-looking laser blasts at the other ship's drive section, which was kind of weird since there should have been no way to see laser shots since the vessels were not in an atmosphere, but what the hell do SF writers know anyway? Within moments the second ship's drive area vaped in a white "burp" and the ship went dead in space.

"Take that, ya cows of a fatherless bovine!" came the sarcastic voice from the ship with the cool lasers. "Hah, hah, hah, hah, hah, hah, hah!"

"May yer intestines strangle yoos as ya rot in a shallow grave, my son," went the equally vindictive voice from ship two.

The first ship sped away, its sarcastic voice laughing over the space channels.

"Mr. Data," Capt. Picard started. "How many survivors are on board the crippled ship?"

"Sensors indicate there are eight survivors, Captain. Additionally, their core is emitting radiation. At the rate of its acceleration, the ship will be completely immersed in hard radiation within two hours, 6 minutes, and 52 seconds."

Capt. Picard tugged his tunic again, sat in his favorite command chair and crossed his legs, striking yet another dramatic pose to impress the crew and the audience, while not really giving two shillings how much time was left on that ship. It was all a pretty young fluff by the name of Ensign Cherry could do to restrain himself from jumping the old geezer.

"Lay in an intercept course, Mr. Data. Mr. Worf, please hail the wounded craft and offer our assistance."

"Aye, sir," Mr. Worf replied in a voice that Commander Riker would give some of his moussed hair for. Oh sure, Riker had the beard and the perfect hair, but he could admit to himself that Worf's voice was the perfect deep baritone.

Lt. Worf clicked the Space-PA button and yelled, "You! Crippled ship! Do you want help or not?!"

"Message coming in," Mr. Worf stated a few seconds later.

"On screen," replied the Captain.

An electronic "blip" later, Picard, Riker, Worf, Data, and the rest of the bridge crew were looking at an incredibly wizened… or wrinkled… or just plain old face of a woman wearing a black habit.

"What the heck are you lookin' at?" she barked.

Ensign Cherry temporarily lost whatever carnal infatuation he had for the Captain.

Gingerly, Capt. Picard rose, yanked his tunic for the 324th time that day and said, "Madam..."

The image broke in, saying, "I ain't no Madam, ya idjit!"

"Um... yes. Anyway, do you realize that your vessel is in danger of becoming completely radioactive?"

"Of course I'm aware of that, ya numskull! Yuh think I'm stupid or somethin'?"

"Ummm..." Picard started.

"Aahh, knock it off and beam me t'yor fancy tin can 'fore me and muh girls kick the bucket!" With that the screen thankfully clicked off and the bridge crew was left looking at the ship falling in the vacuum of space. And it was falling. Because the enemy's gate is down. Wait. Wrong series. Anyway, the captain and his bridge crew watched at the gray rectangle began drifting.

"Mr. Worf, please see to it that the survivors are beamed aboard expeditiously..." The Captain noticed the knobs on Worf's head dip down and his eyes squinted. He hastily said, "...beam them aboard as quickly as possible. Commander Riker and I will meet them in Transporter Room 3. Mr. Data, you have the bridge."

Capt. Picard moved for the lift, with Riker swaggering in behind him, listing to the right today Picard noticed. The turbolift whisked them to their destination in seconds, disgorging them as soon as the doors opened by pivoting the floor up in a spring-like motion while they were still waiting for their equilibrium to catch up.

But as with any halfway decent crew, the two officers were caught before they slammed onto the deck or into a wall. The turbolift's computer made a note to increase its spin next time Picard boarded it. This was fun! One of these times, it knew, the Captain would get his.

Upright, Picard tugged his tunic again, paused when he heard a female sigh in the background, and then continued his way to Transporter Room 3. Riker still swaggered behind him, his head arched to one side as the weight of the chemicals in his hair caused a gravity imbalance.

Chief "Oy-am-l-ever-in-need-of-a-drink-if-that- 'were-nun' -is-beamed-aboard-and-looks-in-my-direction" Brien was awaiting Capt. Picard's order to beam the survivors over.

"I've got a lock on the survivors, Captain."

"Beam them aboard, Mr. O'Brien," said Capt. Picard.

The transporter transported, the sparkly beams sparkled, and shortly eight persons in black habits were standing on the transport pads. Sizes ranged from a little over a meter in height to just over two meters. Weights also ranged from plump to portly but as they were wearing baggy habits it was hard for the Federation crew members to tell—however, as your narrator I was aware of these things.

Commander Riker's posture straightened and Picard quickly noticed the cause—three of the space nuns' habits were not as baggy as the rest, and consequently showed some good hooters.

"For God's sake, man, they're nuns!" Picard whispered.

Riker looked at him, smiled and said, "Well, until I know what their vows are, they're just nun-babes to me."

"I heard that!" screeched the habited head nun.

Mr. "Oy-etc. Brien quickly found an interesting spot on the wall to concentrate his gaze and dream of whiskey shots to come... and soon!

"I've heard of yoos, Commander Riker, yoos self-proclaimed interstellar studbuns! Yoos keeps yer dang mitts of my girls or so help me I'll roast yer Mr. Happy over an open microwave pit! Gettit?!" She poked Riker in the chest, her long black-coated nails slicing the threads in his uniform.

Riker stepped back... anything to get away from that libido killing creature! And as Riker was recoiling in terror, Picard ignored the two and concentrated on the space nun that was over two meters tall. And instead of tugging his tunic he began a scowl.

"Now I want yoos to git yer hand outta yer britches and git muh ship fixed!" the mouth continued, brandishing a space-ruler. An impressive one at that. "I want yuh ta git its engines back on line, its navi-gate-shun computer on line, and our bible-replicator back on line, an I wants yoos ta do it now!" With that, she smacked Commander Riker on the back of his hand, leaving the marking '2.3 CENTINMETER' impression that was amazingly 2.3 centimeters long.

"And as for you, Cap'n, I want secluded cabins for muh girls an' for myself. And I want it now!" she shoved her incredibly old face into Picard's, but it didn't faze him. It only gave Chief O'Brien more respect for the old man. 'Man, that whiskey was going to go down good tonight,' he thought.

Capt. Picard sidestepped the ol' bat and approached the tall space nun. The smaller nuns met the Captain's gaze, but the tall one kept a turned head.

"Commander," began Picard. "I would like you to meet someone." Riker stepped forward as the Captain pulled back the habit's headpiece. Underneath the black cloth, pale blue eyes peered over a snub-nosed nose, which was in tum over an easy thin-lipped smile.

Short thinning gray hair sat atop an aged balding head, which fell to the front of the face in the form of a graying beard and mustache.

"Commander, meet Xavier-Octavius Picard."

Xavier beamed and said, "Well, fancy meeting you here, cousin."

Jean-Luc scowled menacingly. "Throw him in the brig." He then turned on his heels and left Transporter Room 3.

Xavier yelled, "Nice seeing you again, Jean-Luc!"

"A man, eh?" the ancient space nun commented, shifting her hands to her hips and putting the ruler away in a utility chastity belt. Xavier turned to her and beamed another smile, but before he could say anything, she belted him in the kisser.

She then shifted her gaze to the remaining nuns and asked, "Alright, which one of yoos was the responsible witch for stashin' aboard a man?! Speak up!"

One of the less-threatening nuns stepped forward and explained. "We didn't know he was a male when he registered, Mother Superior. Since Sister Eunice Quadriplegic had a mustache, we thought it was normal for a sister to develop sideburns and a beard as well. Please don t beat us!"

"Yes, please don t beat us!" wailed the remaining space nuns, collapsing to the deck.

"No one is going to beat you," Commander Riker said, moving in to cop a feel... er... help the nuns up. "At least, not while you're on this ship. Now let's see about finding you some quarters."

Xavier got up and agreed. "Yes, let's."

Riker grabbed the man wearing the nun's habit by the shoulder. "Not you. You're headed for the brig."

"Can I throw these here girls in the brig as well?" asked the Mother Superior.

"Why would you want to do that?" Riker responded.

"It'll keep them outta trouble, jerk."

"Then, no, you can't."

"Pucker nuts," she replied.

In the turbolift on his way back to his ready room (having threatened to jettison the lift if it continued to harass him), Jean-Luc continued his log entry.

"Captain's log: supplemental. Forget last thing said in log. With the recent addition of Xavier aboard the Enterprise nothing will go right until he's off." He paused, leaning against the lift doors and commented, "This sucks."


	2. Chapter 2: When it rains

Chapter 2: When it rains, it pours cosmic dust which when you think about it impacts spaceships at high velocity, causing them to crash – oh, wait, is this thing on?

 **24 HOURS LATER**

Captain Jean-Luc Picard tugged on his tunic, straightened his posture, moved his neck to get rid of a crick and generally looked impressive to the young ensigns assembled around him as he pushed a button that stated, "DO NOT PUSH—EXPLOSIVE DECOMPRESSION'. An exterior panel whipped open and with a whoosh of 02 and CO, the malfunctioning lift with an attitude against Fleet officers zipped into the black of space where it was quickly blasted out of the nebula by the ever-trigger-happy Mr. Worf.

An ever-trigger-happy, _fiendishly_ grinning Mr. Worf who loved to shoot things. Especially malfunctioning lifts that he slipped a few credits to some off-duty engineer weeks earlier to get that lift into a malfunctioning status in order for this moment to come. Who said Klingons couldn't predict the future?

"And good riddance," Picard said, a smile almost forming.

The gaggle of ensigns sighed at Picard's masterful decision to blow the turbolift out of the ship and then went back to their business.

Purposeful strides aside, Jean-Luc made his way to a new turbolift (dutifully cowed he knew) and then to the outer area of the ship's body, where brigs were occasionally kept. It had been determined by Starfleet centuries ago that brigs would be kept in the outer areas of a ship. The reason: those areas usually received more gamma radiation than areas further inside a vessel, and should therefore be avoided by the rest of the crew – you know, keep the crew focused on not being troublemakers less they get a bout of cancer. And should someone tried to break a person out by blowing a hole in the hull and then grabbing him, her, or it, the resulting oxygen deprivation and the cold of space would more than likely give the unshielded prisoner scrambled brains. This little tidbit of information managed to work its way around every ship in Starfleet via a voracious grapevine and crew sentients made it their business to stay out of trouble. As for those slackers who ended up in the brig, well, who gave a damn about slackers anyway?

Jean-Luc thought about none of this as he marched past swooning ensigns vying for a quick jump to a higher rank on his way to the brig. He met Counselor Troi and Dr. Crusher as they were leaving Cell #1.

"Oh, Captain," Dr. Beverly Crusher began, just noticing the mostly hairless captain. "Good, you're here. I just wanted you to know that Xavier is in excellent health — his digestive system is a little undernourished what with the bread and water diet you've have him on for the past day, but otherwise he is as healthy as you."

Jean-Luc winced at the association. He turned to the Betazoid babe with the long black hair and said, "Counselor, your report, please."

"He has remarkable mental and emotional control, Captain." she said in a nasal-cockney accent. "His mind is completely closed to me and he doesn't even mind his incarceration."

"Yes, well. Harrumph. Thank you for your reports." Jean-Luc moved for the brig as the two officers went to the turbolift. In the distance, he could overhear the twosome talking about his cousin.

"I tell you, Beverly, I just loved that story Xavier told about his fifth birthday. Wasn't it adorable?"

"Absolutely. But I liked that Academy story better. Oh, and did you notice, he spoke French to me. Oooooohh."

Jean-Luc's visage turned a steaming red at that overheard comment, but he quickly calmed down prior to entering the brig. Xavier-Octavius was admiring himself in front of a mirror, working on flashing his infamous smile. Or as Jean-Luc had heard it, the smile that could stop a thousand knees. Jean-Luc didn't know about that rumor, but he did know that Xavier's smile had cost the family enough.

"Xavier!" Captain Picard snapped. "What are you doing in my sector of space?"

Xavier flashed his smile to an unappreciative spectator, knowing simply by his rigid stance that Jean-Luc would be a tough nut to crack. "Cousin, whatever do you mean?"

"Cut that innocent ploy with me. You're up to something, otherwise why the habit?"

"Which habit are you referring to? I have so many," Xavier-Octavius smirked.

Capt. Picard stood there searching for an answer, but looking important while doing it.

Xavier-Octavius caved. "Maybe I've found religion."

The Captain's left eyelid twitched momentarily. "Yeah, and I'm a Klingon."

"Heh-heh, you never were one to fool for long, Jean-Luc."

"Are you going to tell me what you're doing here or not?!"

Xavier-Octavius thought about the request, thought about how much Jean-Luc was on edge these days. Thought about how much fun he'd had the previous night before his incarceration in this extremely dull brig and simply replied, "No."

Suddenly, "Riker to Picard."

His communications device still active as it was tingling his nipple, Picard replied in an exasperated voice, "What is it now, Number One?"

Commander Riker thought about asking what kind of bug the Captain had up his butt, but instead said, "It's the Mother Superior, sir. She is insisting that we give her full access to 10-Forward or she will sue Starfleet Command on the grounds of religious persecution."

"Ask him if he wants his theme music yet," Captain Picard heard Mr. Worf ask in the background.

"Would you get off my communicator?!" Riker snapped.

"Number One..." No answer. "Number One..." No answer, but some sounds of a scuffle were evident. "Will! I will handle the Mother Superior—you..." he searched for something to say, "...you handle the theme music. Picard out."

"Ooooohh, you sound so masterful when you say that," Xavier jibed, as he bat his eyelashes and laughed.

Jean-Luc scowled, a habit he was finding hard to break, and said. "Get bent."

"Oh, that hurts, Jean-Luc."

"I'm going to want answers when I return, Xavier," Jean-Luc said forcefully. Too bad Xavier-Octavius wasn't an ensign he could terrorize, Capt. Picard mused bitterly.

"Don't point that finger unless you're prepared to use it!" Xavier-Octavius called out to his departing cousin.

Tired of battling neurotic turbolifts, Captain Picard took a lesser known alternate route to the passenger deck which was also located on the boundaries of the ship for as Starfleet reasoned some time ago, the only good tourist was a docile tourist dying of radiation poisoning.

Again, Picard thought on none of this as he huffed and puffed his way up four flights of stairs in the virtually unknown, and always deserted cosmic stairwell. There had been many arguments, both pro and con, about the building of stairwells in ships. Who would use the stairs if turbolifts were available? Turbolifts were the wave of the future. If buildings with lifts were required to have stairs, spaceships should be no exception came the bitter reply from the stairwell union rep in a covert meeting with the Federation's ship designer guild. Perhaps a stairwell could be used to hold space weapons, one of the assembled hypothesized. Or maybe it would be a good place to kip a smoke, suggested a member of the almost-extinct Tobacco League.

Bitch, moan; gripe, groan the arguments went on and on until the dry-dock workers rep told her reason why a stairwell was a good idea. It was a cool place to play with their space-slinkies. And considering that keeping the dry-dock workers happy was excessively important to building any ship with a moderate chance of having working plumbing, well… the stairwells stayed from then on.

Capt. Picard was slightly taken back by how crowded the halls had gotten over the last 24 hours. He remembered personally greeting the Klingon, Andorian and Ferengi envoys, but apparently, they had been joined by representatives of twelve more alien races. Representatives from world after world carne up to him and shook his hands, commenting on how pleased they were to be participating in this historic event, and asking if he were alright since he seemed to be sweating and breathing harder than most of his race. Picard shook their hands (and what passed for limbs) and commented how pleased he was to be hosting the contest and if there was anything he or his staff could do just let him know, and yes, he was fine. What a host not to worry the visiting people of the various races by telling them he was taking the Cosmic Stairwell these days to avoid the malfunctioning turbolifts lest he be killed by one of them. Better to let the dignitaries take their chances.

Three doors from the Mother Superior's room, Capt. Picard again found himself delivering his spiel to a delegate from Smith's world. What a mistake that was, he realized after receiving 30 volts from a hand buzzer and a spray of black ink onto his chest by the ever-so-ingenious plastic flower on the lapel. He knew the Smithonian was only vying to gain a sense of independence from the other six reps wearing voltage buzzers and spraying flowers, but if he ever found that Smithonian in a turbolift near a jettison button...

Capt. Picard made it to the Mother Superior's door as it opened. There stood in all her terrifying magnificence, the one-and-a-half-meter tall scowl on two legs. She looked even meaner than the day before, Picard noticed.

"Well, it's about damn time yoos got here," she screeched in a chain-smoker kind of way. "Is muh ship fixed yet? Why is yer chest wet and black? These rooms stink. At least yer Long Distance carrier is active an' I called back home an' spoke with Hillbilly Helen, appraising her of the situation. But now I gotta pray over what to do next. I don't have no place to pray. Whatcha gonna do about it, bub?"

Picard had had enough and in his commanding voice said, "First, woman, you will address me by my title whenever you talk to me. Second, your ship's engines nearly blew up and repairing them will take some time. My chest is wet due to a comedian's poor taste. I apologize for the room, but tough it out, you old crone! And as for a place to pray — won't the closet or the bathroom do?"

The Mother Superior's eyes softened at Picard's abusive comments, reminding her of her youth but still said, "No."

He was the captain of this vessel and yet here he was taking no for answer after answer! Something had to be done!

"In that case, I'll see what I can do to find you a place to pray. But there is no chance of you taking over 10-Forward. An interspecies contest has prior claim."

The Mother Superior's eyes shot up. "A contest? What type of contest?!" She was breathing hard.

Picard, oblivious to her obvious misgivings, blindly told her. "It's a comedy contest."

"A comedy contest?!" she nearly shrieked in disbelief. "When yoos mentioned the talentless comedian a moment ago, I thunk yoos were bein' kind—knowin' muh order's beliefs an' all. But a full fledge comedy contest? Git yer butt outta here, bub! An' don't lets me ketch yoos at thet thar comedy contest or I'll forget ta pray fer yoos. Gettit?" Although ship doors were designed to open and close on magnetic rails automatically, she managed to throw Picard out and slam her doors shut.

"Captain to the bridge!" Commander Riker bellowed throughout the ship's intercom.

"Picard here, Numero Uno. What's up and why are you using ships' communication?"

"I wouldn't be using ship's communication, sir, if a certain Klingon knew how to handle other people's stuff. However, what's really important here is that scanners have picked up a Romulan warbird in the Neutral Zone on an intercept course."

"On my way," Picard said immediately, moving directly to a turbolift. Ten seconds later the Captain was standing in his place of power, silently watching the approaching Romulan spaceship and glad Accounts Payable finally paid the cable bill.

"Sir," Worf said as soon as Capt. Picard was on the bridge. "Would you care for some dramatic music now?"

"Not now, lieutenant," he responded. Then, "Will, with all the ships around us, we won't be able to maneuver very well."

"I know, sir. And if we want to protect those ships at all, we will be very vulnerable."

"Just out of curiosity, Commander, which of the vessels around us belong to the Smithonians?"

Before Commander Riker could respond, an incoming message from the Romulan ship beeped on the Enterprise's call-forwarding system. Mr. Worf picked up the red receiver and placed it to his ear. "Hello?" he inquired. He continued, "Uh-huh," pause, "uh-huh, uh-huh. Hold on, I'll check." To Capt. Picard, "Sir, the Romulans are requesting to be allowed the right to enter the contest."

"The Comedy Contest?" Picard clarified.

"Yes sir," Mr. Worf replied, holding the phone close to his chest, one hand over the speaker end.

"Recommendations, Mr. Data." Capt. Picard instructed.

"As long as they cause no problems, I see no reason not to allow them in."

"Mr. Worf," Picard began. "Inform the Romulans they are welcome to enter the contest as long as they remain good boys. And to ensure this, a security team will be placed around them."

Mr. Worf related all this to the Romulans who replied simply, "Okeydokey." He then hung up the cordless receiver. Who said this ship wasn't high-tech.

Capt. Picard looked first at Commander Riker, seeing if he might have a notion as to what the Romulans were up to now. His blank look was all Picard needed to know.

"Mr. Worf."

"Sir?"

"Cue dramatic music, please."

"Finally," the Klingon grinned while clicking a button that allowed music to crescendo.


	3. Chapter 3: One little, two little

**Chapter 3: One little, two little, three little idiots**

 **Disclaimer** : This is an amateur fan publication and is not intended to infringe on the rights of Paramount Pictures or any other holders of copyrights on STAR TREK.

 **DAY 3**

Capt. Picard stood in an immense room, roughly the size of a football field with over 8,000 single, double, triple, and a quad-pews littering the floor in an organized mess. In the center of the expanse sat an active fountain over 20 meters in circumference shooting yellow, red, green and blue water 40 meters in the air. Overhead doves flocked together carrying a form of weed in their peckers. An ornate musical piece cascaded out of hidden sound systems, flooding the area with a sense of harmony and peace. That, or the heavy base score did the trick.

"Will this one do?" he asked of the Mother Superior, frustration evident in his breathing pattern.

"Hmm," she looked at the location critically. "Well...no," she replied, hands on her hips.

Capt. Picard was near his breaking point. He had spent the last three hours of his life catering to the Mother Superior! He was more than a little tired of creating prayer halls in the holodeck. In short, he was a massively educated ticked off starship captain!

"Fine," he hissed with a note of finality. Then, "Computer, erase setting and create wharf-side bar—cross reference to time frame and setting of character Dixon Hill! Time frame: night!"

Immediately the setting disappeared, and was replaced by a rickety old wharf side tavern complete with one-eyed sailors and booze-smelling dock workers. The atmosphere was clogged with the stench of narcotics, escaped body fluids, and unidentifiable solid wastes that suggested the originator of it was still around, hidden around a dark corner. In the background a foghorn sounded, cutting through the night. Waves could be heard lapping against the pier as the smell of rotting fish fought against the sound of seagulls fighting over the same rotting fish heads.

"Well, bub. Now we is gettin' somewhere," the Mother Superior beamed in approval.

Capt. Picard walked intently down the corridor to the brig. Sure, he had many missives, notes, and authorizations to review as related to running a starship, but he was sure his able-bodied assistant would be able to handle it. He had more important things to do, after all. He needed to interrogate his cousin. He knew that this time he'd get the answers he'd been waiting for nearly 40 years...no, that wasn't right... for several days to hear. Or there'd be a severe tongue lashing. He had even brought his tongue brush just in case.

Nearing Cell #1 he saw Lt. Worf leaving its confines and— yes, he was sure of it— the lieutenant was chuckling. It was a deep, powerful sounding chuckle that Commander Riker would've been envious of, but it was a chuckle nonetheless.

"Heh, heh, heh. Oh, pardon, Captain. I went to check on the condition of the prisoner and having found him to be of no threat, he told me a joke. Heh, heh— that Xavier, what a card!"

Capt. Picard left the now-guffawing lieutenant and continued to the holding cell. The doors opened before he got there and out came Dr. Crusher.

"Oh, Captain," she said, startled.

"Is there an emergency, doctor?" he asked in his usual non-expressive manner.

"Well, Jean-Luc, I was getting a little worried of the bread and water diet you had Xavier on— so I brought him a little bit of protein to keep him healthy," she said, indicating a two-centimeter space between her thumb and forefinger.

"Umm-hmmm," Jean-Luc umm-hmmmed in disbelief. And rightly so as he would learn.

Dr. Crusher walked around the Captain, her hand going to caress his chin and said, "Oh, Jean-Luc, don't be so frumpy. It's not like he told me as many embarrassing things as he could have." She gave him a wink, which she failed to notice caused a few imitation veins to further show themselves on his brow, and she left.

With a barely-controlled temper, Capt. Picard entered the brig. The first thing he noticed was the La-Z Boy recliner in front of the force screen. The second thing he noticed was the table inside the holding cell. And the final thing that caught his eye was the complete turkey dinner with a full array of side dishes including sweet peas, mashed potatoes and a cherry cobbler for desert.

"Umm-hmmm."

"Ah, Jean-Luc, so happy to see you. Would you care for a bite to eat?" Xavier asked, a fleck of gristle shooting from his mouth and hitting the force screen.

Jean-Luc watched it as the gristle greasily slid down to the floor. "No thank you."

"Pity." Chomp, chomp, growlf, gobble.

"Xavier, are you ready to tell me why you're here?"

Chomp, gobble, glutton, chomp, chomp.

"Xavier! If I could ask..."

Chomp, chomp, sluuuuurrrrrp! He slurped loudly the glass of water.

"Cousin..."

Growlf, devour, glutton, chomp.

"Would you please quit stuffing your face for a minute?!"

Xavier-Octavius lifted his head, grease dripping from his beard and lips and asked, "What is it, Jean-Luc?!"

"I want to know your purpose in this sector!"

"Oh, that." He dabbed the grease off his beard. "Sorry, I can't tell you."

"You damn well will tell me or things will get worse for you!" Capt. Picard was not doing a decent job of holding his temper.

"Jean-Luc, if more prisons were run like yours, I doubt there would be criminals."

"By all rights, I should have this feast removed!"

"Go right ahead— I'm full."

"Fine, but be warned that if I take your supper, I also take the cherry cobbler. Now will you tell everything from the beginning?"

Xavier-Octavius sat back in his chair and put his feet on the table. "Well, Jean-Luc, it all began when we were young boys living in France. There was this girl who lived on a neighboring vineyard and..."

Capt. Picard slumped in the La-Z Boy, grateful for its existence in what he knew would be a very, very, very long story.

"You know, Data," Geordi said, absently bumping off a wall that his visor had misread as an open door, "...ouch ...you know, I just can't get over how much Xavier reminds me of Captain Picard."

"How do you mean, Geordi?" Data said, straightening his black bow tie.

"I mean... ouch, damn this visor anyway! ...that he has as commanding a presence as does the Captain. Had he gone to Starfleet I'm sure he would've been captaining his own ship—maybe even the Enterprise. Oof."

"Watch yourself, Geordi. I am not so sure your assessment of Xavier-Octavius Picard is completely accurate. In my research, I found that he did attend Starfleet and was expelled in his senior year for gambling."

Bump. ''Aaaarrgh! That does it! Data hold on a moment while I put in my contacts." Visor off, and first contact in, he continued. "But I don't understand why someone would be expelled for something like gambling. Disciplined I could understand, but cashiered?"

Data took a moment to paint a thick, black, greasy mustache between his nose and his upper pseudo-lip and said, "While most of the file was classified, I did gather he was winning."

"That still doesn't make any sense," Geordi commented, putting in his second lens.

"Geordi, the file was put under a security lock by then-Admiral Stein. The same Admiral who was later cashiered for running a protection racket."

"Well, that explains it then," Geordi said, sliding his malfunctioning shades into a cryptically hidden pocket that all the uniforms seemed to have for no apparent reason. None whatsoever. "So, how do I look?"

Data inspected Geordi closely. Unlike other contacts that were transparent, these were miniature versions of his visor over each eye. He had no pupil in a sea of bloodshot showing; instead he displayed two eyes of gold and black stripes. "I believe," Data began, "it is a good thing you will be sitting in a dimly-lit environment."

A few minutes later Geordi was sitting in a dimly-lit environment surrounded by a torrent of unfamiliar faces sucking down an ocean of totally bizarre drinks. He saw drinks that were smoking (not smoke arising from a drink, but a drink that was taking a drag on a cancer stick), plaid drinks, even drinks making "eek, eek, eek, help me," noises. Guinan came by for his drink request. "What do you want, Geordi?" she asked tersely.

"Guinan, what's wrong?" Geordi asked seriously.

"You ever get your keester pinched by a Klingon before?" she snapped.

"Umm, no."

"Well, I have and my knuckles are killing me."

Geordi was about to ask what she meant by that when a Klingon leaned over and pinched her butt. She quickly spun around and belted him in the mouth. He landed on the floor two meters away, shook his head clear of stars, smiled at Guinan in admiration of being one of the few babes able to do that to him and sat back down.

"See what I have to deal with?!" she said. "Now what do you want?

Geordi timidly pointed to a Smithonian drink.

"No. You don't want that," Guinan stated sharply.

"Well, then how about..." he started, pointing to yet another drink.

"No, you don't want that one either."

"How about..."

"No."

Geordi finally got the Orange Juice that he wanted in time to watch Data open the contest.

"Good evening, sentients and germs—and welcome to the first ever Intergalactic Comedy Contest!" Data was hunched over when he spoke.

Geordi slammed his OJ and ordered another one, wondering if Guinan had spiked it after all, for a Puernoit babe was giving him the eye. As in the singular kind.

Data continued, "I just flew into this sector and boy are my arms tired." An Andorian cracked up.

"A Klingon came up to the other day and said he had not had a bite to eat in three days. So I bit him." A table of Klingons started laughing.

"I bought a fur coat the other day at sixty percent off, and when I tried it on, sure enough sixty percent of the fur was missing." The Ferengi reps began laughing as did a few more Andorians.

Data was on a roll. "There were two Romulans in a gym. The first one took off a girdle. The second one asked, 'Since when did you start wearing a girdle?' The second one replied, 'Since my wife found it in the glove compartment.'" The Klingons really started laughing.

Data pushed on. "Last night I shot an elephant in my pajamas. How he got in my pajamas I will never know." There went the remaining Andorians. Half a minute later the laughter died down.

"Seriously, though, folks, as we all know, the grand prize of this contest will be an all-expense paid trip to Lake Tahoe, Nevada, Earth!" The crowd oooohhed with delight. "Yes, that is right; an all-expense paid trip to one of the galaxy's hottest resorts, surpassing even that of the tramp-planet, Risa! Your vacation will begin at the Starport where you will be picked up by a fully automated air-limo and flown to the luxurious Holiday Inn! There you will spend 13 nights and 14 days having your every whim catered to by an array of robots charged with maintaining your enjoyment."

The crowd aaaahhed with delight. "And in the evenings, you can spend your time gambling or throwing rocks in the faintly glowing radioactive lake. And that is not all, for the winner will also get the chance to appear in a new comedy by the ever resourceful, Mr. Ilied Anstole. From there, fame and fortune could be yours!"

The crowd applauded and stamped their feet in delight.

Commander Data allowed himself a crowd-pleasing grin, gripped his right underarm pit and began pumping. This cracked up the Klingon and Andorian delegations. Even a couple Romulans got into the swing of it. A Ferengi holovision director couldn't understand the value of the act so he quickly dismissed it and went back to reading his comedy book, 'Other Planets Stock Market Crashes'.

Geordi sat in his seat with a blank look.

Commander Data ceased his antics, put one hand behind his back and paced back and forth on stage. "Well, without further ado, and the last thing I would say to a Klingon woman is "Ah do", may I present our first contestant. He has slayed them on Tenninus and Fatalisticism IV; the one, the only, the comedic Klingon corporal... Mo! "

Polite applause littered 10-Forward as did the sound of a bartender's fist hitting another Klingon. Cpl. Mo ka-lumped on stage in his warrior's uniform with a t-shirt pulled over his upper torso that stated, 'I INITIATED THE CARNAGE AT KILLIAN RED AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS LOUSY T-SHIRT'.

"Thank you, thank you for the applause, but then if you hadn't applauded I think my comrades would have killed you."

"Har, har, har, har, har!" laughed his comrades.

Geordi sat at his table with a blank expression.

"Har, har, okay enough of that. Now here's a good one: How many Romulans does it take to screw in a light-unit?"

"How many?!" yelled back a table of Klingons.

"I'm not sure—can any of them even unscrew a light-unit?"

"Har, har, har, har, har!"

Geordi sat in his seat with the blank look. He wasn't alone in sitting quietly. The only other person chuckling was a Ferengi holovision director, although his humor was in the written word.

"Two Andorians walk into a bar both wearing munci-taks on their heads," Cpl. Mo started. "The bartender asks, 'Hey, why're you wearing munci-taks on your heads?' The first Andorian looks stupidly at the second and says, 'We thought this was how you got credit!' Get it?!"

"Har, har, har, har, har!"

Geordi sat with a blank look.

"Why don't you get some real jokes, Klingon?!" heckled a Romulan.

Like any Eve professional, Cpl. Mo simply replied, "A real joke? You mean like the Romulan Empire?"

"Har, har, har, har, har!" Geordi laughed at that one.

An Andorian was pacing the stage, a mic in his hand, his antennas moving nervously. He had never been holovised to so many beings before. Well, to hell with this sissy nerves, he thought. He'd do his best to be as best as he could.

"Heh, heh, here's an oldie, how many Klingons does it take to arm a photon launcher? Anyone? Anyone? Unknown, no Klingon has ever been able to do it yet!"

"Titter, titter, titter," a table of Andorians tittered.

Geordi sat quietly at his table with his patented blank look.

"Hey," a Romulan heckled. "Who writes your material?! A snooflblooster?! Ha, ha!"

The Andorian looked cross but casually said, "No. Actually it was the Klingon High Command."

"Titter, titter, titter," tittered the table of intoxicated Andorians, all without a fist imprint on their faces by a grumpy bartender.

Geordi sat with a blank look as a couple of wayward space nuns sneaked into 10-Forward, found a table in the rear, started slamming Jack Daniel shots and began laughing at anything.

A Romulan stood still as he delivered his monologue on stage. His shirt, bearing the inscription, 'I BLEW UP A MOON IN GEOSYNCHRONOUS ORBIT AROUND CALLIDOR AND ALL I GOT WAS LOUSY T-SHIRT' was the only thing out of place on an otherwise prissy visage.

He began. "How many Andorians does it take to build a spaceship? Six. One to paint it and five to steal it."

"Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha," went a tableful of Romulans.

Geordi still sat at this table with the same blank look.

"Boo! Get a real joke!" the Andorian comic heckled, returning the favor from a few minutes earlier.

"Yeah! You come from one!" shouted Cpl. Mo. No way was he going to let an Andorian be the only heckler on a Romulan of all things.

"Listen, sgluffle-face," the Romulan pointed at the Andorian, "if you don't like my act, why don't you come up and doing this. Otherwise, butt out. Now, there were these two Klingons who went into a bar..."

Geordi, whose eyes had begun to droop, suddenly found renewed vigor to stay awake as a fight broke out on stage.

As it was, before the Romulan, Sub-Lt. Curles, had gotten to his punch line, he was punched in the midsection by a fist the size of a good-sized Klingon fist swung by a good-sized Klingon. A whoosh of air rushed from his lungs and he went spiraling backward. The Andorian comic, Laughing Lawrence to those in the audience, then pounced, poking him in the eyes while trying to steal away the microphone.

"Woo, woo, woo, woo!" went the Andorian's battle cry.

Cpl. Mo was also there, valiantly slapping the Andorian aside with a solid whack of his good-sized hand. "Ha! Meet Mr. Goodhand, creep!" he bellowed.

Romulan Curles was no slouch to beating off hecklers and quickly threw a karate chop at the Klingon, who successfully parried the blow by slapping it aside into the Andorian's face.

"Yah-ah-ah-ah!" Laughing Lawrence managed before being knocked into the next paragraph.

Off-balance, Curles rolled on top of the Andorian and shoved his legs backwards, ensnaring Cpl. Mo's legs and having him fall to the stage floor as well. Both soon started rolling around on the floor, trying to punch each other.

The Andorian, feeling vindictive at being rolled over not once, but twice (may their bodies rot on a deserted asteroid filled with smelly socks!) attacked the two of them, joining the roll.

"Worm biter!"

"Keep your sexual desires to yourself!"

"Woo, woo, woo, woo!"

A few seconds later they stopped, out of breath, and fell apart from one another. Upon looking at the audience, they instantly noticed the total lack of silence. The crowd was not just liking it—they were loving it. Klingons, Andorians, Romulans, even Smithonians were all laughing, laughing, laughing!

Geordi had not moved from his table, but his glass had fallen over when he had pounded on the table, in a half-hearted effort to stop his guffawing. The space nuns weren't so inebriated that they didn't know what was going on. They were laughing at a high giddy shriek. The volume was akin to that of a riot.

It was a laugh riot.

The noise had reached other areas of the ship and within minutes a security detachment had entered 10-Forward, Capt. Picard leading the way. The big cheese did a fast summation of the area, saw Mr. Data shrug his shoulders at the three comics resting on the stage, saw the ever-diligent space nuns, then saw the rating on the LAUGH-O-YETER score an 8.5 out of a 10-high. He took all this in and said, "Mr. Wolf."

Pause.

"Foreboding danger music, please."

Mr. Worf quickly popped a small USB into his belt-side player and deeply-disturbed foreboding music wafted through the audience.


	4. Chapter 4: Beat me, hurt me

**Chapter 4: Beat me, hurt me, but if you really want to show me that you care, don't eat anything when you're on my couch**

 **Disclaimer** : This is an amateur fan publication and is not intended to infringe on the rights of Paramount Pictures or any other holders of copyrights on STAR TREK.

 **12 MORE HOURS LATER**

As the Enterprise-D and 22 other starships (including a Klingon battlecruiser capable of decimating an entire planet on smell alone, and a Romulan battlecruiser capable of attacking the aforementioned Klingon ship and losing somewhat badly) fell through space at an even pace relative to one another though they weren't related at all, Dr. Beverly Crusher had her hands full on one of the most delicate operations she had ever had to perform.

She worked in the center of sick bay, four assistants standing around hoping to be the next one to assist her. In the background, numerous machines let out a cacophony of dings, chirps, and hollow pings in a subtle, yet annoying way which caused patients to spend as little time in sick bay as possible.

"Laser scalpel," Dr. Crusher said, her left hand outstretched.

Obediently, a Vulcan female slapped a laser scalpel onto her hand. A human male wiped the sweat off her tense brow.

"If I make an incision from the center and work out..." Dr. Crusher mumbled to herself, lost in surgical thoughts. "However, if the cut goes from the exterior to the center, could the line..."

Delicately, she made the first cut and almost immediately the table sensor chimed to an agitated level.

"This isn't working!" she announced, her voice getting more agitated. "Clear around me!"

The others moved back, concern on their faces.

Doctor Crusher quickly moved around the table, to tackle the issue from another angle, to get a better view. However, there were no better views. With a heavy sigh, she stood up and yanked her cool cutting gloves off and said, "Well, campers, I'm afraid we've lost another patient. There's simply no way to cut a pizza nine ways and keep it even."

"It was a valiant effort anyway, Dr. Crusher," Dr. Solar, the female Vulcan said while inserting a tap into the day's allotment of synthetic beer spiked with a quart of Jack Daniel's. To a Vulcan that was just a chaser to more potent drinks such as Borolion 20/20/20, Xnlpdni's Sippies, and the most exotic intoxicant of all: bottom-found Grape Kool-Aid sludge.

Beverly knew that Vulcans were the Federation's best party animals simply because they could hold their liquor better than anyone else—but knew that once they were drunk as Antarian glibznuks, they were a real bitch to get sober.

She also knew that the group entering her sickbay was going to blow any chance of a private party with her assistants. And if the size of that Klingon's gut was any indicator, then her booze would probably be gone within a half hour.

"Well, ha-ha," sneered the Romulan comedian, aiming his sharp, quick wit at the Klingon. "You're as funny as a broken warp coil."

It was like being hit with a blunt instrument. "Oooohh, I had best watch myself—I am being cut to death by that sharp tongue of yours," sarcasmed Cpl. Mo.

"Titter, titter," went the Andorian. "Now that was funny."

"Aaaaahhh, shaddup," Curles said, smacking the Andorian between his antenna.

Laughing Lawrence curled his hands onto the top of his head while letting out an "ouch" in pain.

The Romulan had no time to gloat as he tried to avoid the incoming Klingon fist.

WHAM!

He didn't succeed. Instead, he went flying backwards, back into the hallways and against a bulkhead. Fortunately, an innocent bystander was between him and the metal wall, which cushioned the impact.

He jumped back to his feet, wiped the bystander off his back and launched himself at the Klingon.

Cpl. Mo caught the Romulan, but the momentum built up carried the two further into sickbay, dangerously close to the center operating table and the present whereabouts of a certain pizza.

"Fish philanderer!" yelled Curles.

"Mucus licker!" returned Cpl. Mo.

"Wonn biter!"

"Hey, you used that one already!"

The two combatants untangled themselves as Curles thought for a moment and said, "By golly, you're right. I did use that expletive before. Sorry."

"Crimeny, Romulan! How can I properly beat you to a pulp if you don't use the correct idioms?!"

Duly chastened, Curles bowed his head and repeated, "My mistake. Sorry."

"Don't do it again," Cpl. Mo began with deadly intent, "or I'll be forced to give you such a pinch!"

"Nobody touches or pinches anything," Dr. Crusher said with a glint of murder in her eyes as she held the three comedians at bay with a Mark mV phaser-cannon she conveniently kept under her desk for just such emergencies. "You clowns move and I'll zaps ya! Dr. Solar, check the pie, quick!"

The Vulcan complied and within moments compiled her report. "It's untouched. Care for a drink?"

Dr. Crusher lowered the cannon slightly and said, "Up against the wall, creeps, and spread-eagle arms and legs. Dr. Maxine, Nurse Joe, frisk them for wounds, slap on some Band-Aids and get them off of my ship!"

"I am afraid it is not your ship, Doctor," Commander Data said, entering the room while Beverly's assistants got to work on the comics.

"They're causing a health problem on the Enterprise—as its chief medical officer this season, I suggest we remove them before any further infractions or contusions occur." Dr. Crusher put her cannon down and slammed a shot of Jack Daniel's-Coors Light.

"I must disagree with you, Doctor." He turned to the Band-Aid laden comedians and announced, "You see, this duo has just scored the highest rating on our computer-advanced LAUGH-O-METER. They have successfully navigated their way to the second round of this contest, which begins tomorrow."

"Wow, we made it to the next round," gaped the nervous Andorian.

"The second round—I knew I could do it, even with you losers ruining my act."

"Get stuffed, Romulan," snarled Cpl. Mo.

"Actually," said Commander Data. "The three of you as a combined unit were what clinched you for the next round. Your individual talents are, as we say in show business, stink worse than Klingon laundry. However, your combined antics have rekindled a spark of old-world humor which the judges feel warrant more attention."

The three comics were silent for a minute, digesting the fact that they really stink on ice, while Dr. Crusher and her gang were digesting a 22.75-inch dead-animal and cheese topping pizza. Finally, "Okay, for the sake of winning the trophy, I will allow you to remain part of my act," Cpl. Mo said, crossing his arms like a monarch surveying his territory.

"Who died and left you king?" the Andorian asked snidely. "Just be glad I'm leaving you in my act"

"What are either of you morons talking about? You jumped into my act, so if anyone is going to allow you to stay, it'll be me—so shape up or ship out!" Curles announced.

"Shape this, Romulan bladder-monster!" Cpl. Mo said, breaking Curles' nose. Not to be outdone, the Andorian delivered his knee to the corporal's privates.

"I think this is where I came in," Data said, leaving.

He passed the still grimacing Capt. Picard and warned him not to go to sick bay if he could help it but once a curiosity piqued and all... well, that usually got the Captain going where he shouldn't have. Entering the whoosh-doors he immediately noticed the three comedians again entangled and rolling on the floor. The next thing he noticed was the lack of concern over Dr. Crusher's face as they rolled on the floor. And why not—Capt. Picard had spent many an hour in one of his Doctor's parties and while the comics were being a nuisance, they weren't anywhere as dangerous as three go-go dancers in one cage.

The last thing he noticed was himself leaving.

"You'd better remember who's in charge!"

"Well, it sure ain't you, you bubbleheaded knobskull!"

"Hey, would you guys get off me, I can't breathe! Guys, hello?!"

Thankfully the doors closed and the area was soundproof—at Dr. Crusher's request as she didn't want patients to hear the screaming she made when her roots went black. Damn those cheap dyes anyway!

"So there yoos is!" announced the brusque Mother Superior.

Capt. Picard winced, but stood his ground as she stomped her way towards him. "What the heck are yoo doin', Cap'n? Why ain't muh ship fixed yet? Why're yoo scratchin' yer nuts on this project?" she screeched, spittle narrowly missing him.

Capt. Picard had been in a lousy mood before, but that had now escalated into a full pissy mood. He snapped at her, "Would you kindly get off my back?! When I know something, I'll let you know! Get it?! Got it?! Good! Now get out of here!"

She got, fond memories of her dead pappy resurfacing.

Picard made good use of this uninterrupted time and got himself all the way down to engineering. Now the Engineering area of the ship is a really cool place that could take several paragraphs if not pages to satirize properly, but since this story is taking longer than anticipated to write, that endeavor would be better used in a sequel, and instead Picard just went straight to the subject at hand.

"Mr. La Forge, how are repairs going on the old crone's... uh... the ol' battleax... uh... the crippled ship?" Capt. Picard was nearly at a loss for adjectives.

Mr. La Forge, still on a "laughing-high" from his lunch hour break at 10-Fonvard, managed to formulate an answer. "Well, repairing... chuckle... the engines weren't a problem. To dedicate the area, we... hrmph... mag-wiped the whole competent. Then we... ha-hrmph... replaced the warp system and reloaded all the software with an Enterprise version of the schematic. Hrmph," he placed a hand over his mouth.

"Estimated time before the ship is space worthy?"

"Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Sorry sir. I'd give the ship another week for the zeta particles to be sucked out of their living quarters. Bwa-ha-ha-hah!"

"Do you have a problem, Mr. La Forge?"

"Nothing that lockjaw couldn't cure! Bwa-ha-ha-hah!" and saying that, Lt. Commander La Forge went into another series of laugh convulsions, only to throw his back out on the third bwa-ha-ha-hah! That'll show him, came an idle thought that Capt. Picard gestated after leaving Geordi atop an empty pizza carton amidst other walking wounded in sick bay.

A pair of dark beady eyes scrutinized the face sitting across the table. The eyes noticed puffy jowls sucking on a cheroot. Intermittent black hair broke up an otherwise thin-gray head of hair. The beard as well contained flecks of black, Skin that should have been a mass of winkles was instead tanned with only a few lines and crinkles here and there.

Commander Riker knew the man facing him, although 64 years old, had the constitution of a person half that age. The fact that Xavier's crafty intelligence had remained intact with his aging gave Riker renewed hope of aging gracefully himself. And if he could look like an old-style movie actor such as the legendary Sean Connery that Xavier looked like, then all the better.

For Commander Riker, there was nothing like still being able to score the babes when you're an old coot was _the_ goal to shoot for.

"You going to make a decision or stare at me all night?" Xavier asked impatiently, blowing smoke towards Riker.

The smoke bounced off his chemically-treated hair better than a bug slapping the side of a car window. "I'll see your five and raise you ten."

"Call." Xavier slid ten chips out onto the table and dealt another card for each of them. Commander Riker got a Queen of Diamonds to help his three other showing Diamonds. Xavier got a Priestess of Hearts—Riker knew his luck would have to change quick as Xavier was closing in on a Royal Family Flush. Which beat a regular Royal Flush every time.

And you, dear reader, thought games hadn't progressed in years. Shame on you. "This hand's good for twenty," Xavier said, sliding his chips through where the force shield should have been.

"Call. You know, Xavier, I heard a rumor that you gambled heavily in your Academy days."

Xavier smiled at the fond memories. "Oh yes, my Academy days. Heh-heh, I got into more trouble than any of my classmates."

"There's this one rumor that's been puzzling me. It stated that you had won Starfleet an Andorian battlewagon. If this is true, where did you get your stakes for a game like that?"

Xavier thought for a moment, smiled that practiced smile of his and said, "I bet that rumor was started by Pip. He always was a sore loser. Always blowing events out of proportion and never doing a good job about it."

"If you didn't win a battlewagon, what did you win?"

"Hmmm? Oh, I won two freighters and sixteen shuttles."

"Okay, what were your stakes? Rumor put it as a Federation Cruiser."

"Well, Commander," Xavier began as the brig doors opened, followed by a grim Jean-Luc. "Let me give you a couple of helpful suggestions. Never play with your own stakes if you can help it. Always have a good excuse ready when you want to leave a game while still winning. And learn how to smoke a cigar—it makes cheating easier when your opponent's eyes are watering." He smiled again and pulled out the two sets of Royal Family of Hearts cards from his sleeves.

"Number One, isn't there some pressing business for you elsewhere on the ship?"

"Well, actually, sir..."

"Another helpful hint is to know when to take a helpful hint." Xavier said, winking an eye.

Commander Riker took the hints and vacated. As the doors closed, Capt. Picard tugged his tunic so hard it ripped at the bottom. "Damn."

"Nervous habit, cousin?" Xavier asked, stressing habit.

"I'm in no mood for games, Xavier. If you want any chance for leniency, you had best tell me why you're in this sector of space!"

"Now, now, Jean-Luc, calm down or you might pop a capillary tube," Xavier said, scooping up his chips.

"Security shield on!" Capt. Picard snapped. Instantly the force screen energized, slicing the card table and a few cards in half. Xavier had moved his fingers away from the screen just in time.

Xavier inhaled deeply, recalibrating his heart rate before asking, "Bad day at the office?"

"Quit stalling!"

"You know, you should try drinking coffee—it'll calm you down while it picks you up."

"Xavier..."

The brig doors opened and an Andorian and two Ferengi strolled in. The lead Ferengi asked, "Is there a poker game going on here? We heard a hot game was underway."

'There's no game in here! This is the brig!" asserted Capt. Picard as only a Captain could.

Not that they were interested in listening.

"And this man lost more than his marker would cover, eh?" the second Ferengi replied. "Good move to lock him up until he can pay, but where's the game now?"

"There is no game!"

"It must be a pretty hot game if he's willing to keep it a secret," the Andorian told the first Ferengi.

"Please leave!" Capt. Picard asked in a polite way. "Or I will have you shackled and blown into space!"

"Ooooohhh, big threats from the human scrooge. Do you know who I am?"

"An obnoxious Ferengi," Captain Picard said bluntly.

The Andorian tittered and the second Ferengi chuckled before saying, "That's funny. Maybe you should be in the comedy contest."

"I'll have you know that I am a close personal friend of Captain Picard," insisted the first Ferengi.

"In that case, I'm sure the Captain and I would agree, then, that you really shouldn't be in a brig," Capt. Picard said smoothly. A mischievous look came over his face. "In fact, I believe his first officer, Commander Riker, is an avid poker fan and I'm sure that if you barge right into his quarters he'd be more than thrilled to engage you in a game."

"All right—a game at last! And with a human yet!" The first Ferengi's eyes lit up like a loan shark. They departed quickly, on the scent of easy money

"Was that a wise thing to do?"

Capt. Picard looked at his cousin coldly, and returned, "It'll keep Will from interrupting me while you're telling a story. And you will tell it"

Xavier could see the change come over his cousin. Gone was the unconcerned brow, the optimistic eyes. Replacing them was an all-consuming need to know.

"Okay, Jean-Luc. You win. I'll tell you."

"Finally," Captain Picard said bitterly.

"Six weeks ago, a Starfleet Intelligence recon drone encountered a derelict alien spaceship floating in the Neutral Zone. It looked in bad shape which may be a reason the Romulans didn't bother with it. As the drone recorded the ship's trajectory that would've taken it out of the Zone and into Federation space in another three weeks, a shipload of Packled idiots descended on it.

"Jean-Luc, this is between us—those Packleds arrived in a cloaked ship of Romulan frequencies. I'm not talking Romulans from years past either. That probe could detect just about everything a sensitive spy-sat could—but those Packleds were already in orbit around the derelict when the probe detected them, and that was only because they became visible. All other energy output signals of theirs were dampened by a system Starfleet was unfamiliar with. You know as well as I do that even cloaked, a Romulan ship will emit some form of radiation, but that probe could not detect it. And if they hadn't gone visible the probe would never have known they were there."

"And?" Capt. Picard prompted.

"It seems those Packleds were noticed by the Romulans and before too long a warbird showed up and what was even more amazing than their cloaking device was their defense system. The probe monitored five direct hits, but their shields still held and their navigation system zipped them out of the Zone."

"Your mission," Capt. Picard prompted again.

Xavier continued as if he hadn't heard Jean-Luc's interruption. "Starfleet caught up to me two weeks ago, in a less-than pleasant situation." Capt. Picard kept his look neutral.

Annoyed, Xavier-Octavius said, "I was in prison, okay?! Anyway, I was told my ships and cargo would be un-impounded if I tracked down and managed to arrange a trade of technologies from those Packleds. My organization concluded that this sector of space was the most likely spot to encounter those Packleds. That, cousin, is why I am in your sector. As for the habit, well, I'm in disguise. Now can I get out of here?"

Capt. Picard stood immobile, considering what he had just heard. A second passed. Another. Then another. Then, "You must be out of your mind to think I'd swallow a cock-an-bull story like that. Intelligent Packleds-—that'll be the day! And Romulans letting a derelict ship float through the Zone -not a chance!"

"It's the truth, cousin."

"Get comfortable, Xavier! You will be left in there until we reach Starbase 142 in two weeks." Capt. Picard spun on his heels and stormed out.

Xavier slumped on his bunk and muttered, "Damn. Should've used a group of rouge Ferengi. Damn, damn, damn."


	5. Chapter 5: Too many ambassadors

**Chapter 5: Too many ambassadors spoil the political arena**

 **Disclaimer** : This is an amateur fan publication and is not intended to infringe on the rights of Paramount Pictures or any other holders of copyrights on STAR TREK.

 **DAY 4**

"Two Romulans walked into a bar on Q'onoS," Laughing Lawrence started as Cpl. Mo and Lt. Curles slugged with each other on the floor. "The first one ordered a Long Island Ice Tea and the second one barked for the same. The bartender brought them their drinks and demanded payment, whereupon the Romulans brought out a handful of cheap trinkets for payment. They said they had heard how the barter system was still in effect for certain drinks. Titter, titter, titter."

"Titter, titter, titter," went a group of Andorians. A table of Ferengi also thought the joke funny and openly laughed; one of the few things they would do for free.

Suddenly Laughing Lawrence's leg was kicked out from underneath him and he went down onto the Klingon as Lt. Curles crawled his way up and started his joke.

"A Klingon, a Packled, and a Ferengi were playing a round of golf. As always, the Klingon asserted that his deity was the most powerful, so his should get most of the collected moneys. The Packled wondered that if the Klingon deity was the most powerful, why did it need all the money? The Ferengi said he needed the cash to buy off his followers!"

"Hah ha ha ha hah!" a group of Romulans broke up.

Lt. Curles was then kicked in the legs by the Klingon, where he fell on top of the Andorian and began flailing for his life. The audience heard a faint, "Woo-woo-woo-woo" behind the approaching Klingon.

Cpl. Mo slicked his hair back and shook his as if getting ready to deliver a knockout punchline. He sauntered up to the mic and said, "Hickory, dickory, dock. An Andorian was sniffing the air. The clock struck three—he moaned." Enunciated 'Mooooooaaaaaannnnnnneeeeed. "He then got out of the tree."

A Klingon bunch lost it "Har, har, har, har, har!" they harred with such intensity they broke the table they kept hitting. It didn't even matter that their representative was wearing a bandage around his head (as were the other two comics), because this Klingon's act had improved 600 percent—although they couldn't understand why he allowed the Andorian or Romulan dog any air time. The Andorian and Romulan delegates were wondering the same thing themselves regarding their respective comedians.

Cpl. Mo turned and jumped on the other two rolling around the floor. He yelled a warrior's cry, as the other two yelled in terror as a 350-pound slab of muscle and metal mesh fell on them.

The crowd screamed in delight.

Capt. Picard was relaxing in his ready room, reading a book laboriously searched for in the ship's library: 101 USES FORA DEAD COUSIN! The coat rack idea on page 56 intrigued him the most.

"Riker to Picard!"

"Go ahead, Number One," Capt. Picard said absently, flipping past another good idea for a Dead Cousin!

"You have a Priority Ultra-Radiant Red call on the Ultra-Radiant Priority-One line," he said without a hint of emotion in his voice.

"Thank you, Will," Capt. Picard returned, wondering if his first officer was a bit miffed at his joke last night.

"No, thank you," Riker said before the line went dead.

Capt. Picard moved to his desk and swiveled around his all-purpose video/computer/game-boy screen and accessed the Ultra etc. screen, effortlessly bypassing the computer-locks with a swift hand-smack to the side of the terminal.

Static lines were removed by playing with the attachable ultra-high tech rabbit ears. Within moments Capt. Picard had a clear picture of Ambassador Glower calling from the Klingon home world. The Ambassador had a white beard that went down to his fat gut, wore a red suit connected with black belts and spoke with a heavy voice akin to that of a jolly fellow. However, the ridge of centered knobs on his head intermixed with the dozen or so scars on his face indicated he was anything but a jolly fellow, much as Lt. Worf was never a merry-man.

"Ambassador, so good to see you again," Capt. Picard said with a friendly smile.

"Do you have a standard line for everything, Picard? Because we've never met!" Ambassador Glower's lips softened as Capt. Picard's face lost color—a character trait which most Klingons didn't know meant, but one that he did.

"Surely, Ambassador..."

"Give it a rest, Captain. I'm not in a criticizing mood. In fact, I'm in a friendly mood that will reflect favorably on the Federation. I have been monitoring the Comedy Contest and have noticed that our representative, Cpl. Mo is in the lead. I have to admit I was a little floored when he showed up with a Romulan-dog and that idiot Andorian, but I can't argue with his results. And since they are only his assistants and won't be receiving the trophy, the Klingon High Command can tolerate them for the time being."

I'm not so sure they're assist..." Picard managed before the Ambassador cut him off.

"I just wanted to inform you that my ship will be rendezvousing with yours in two days for the awards ceremony. Please make sure the reception area is big enough for a small contingent of officials so we can honor our champion. Also see to it that his two idiot savant assistants are kept out of the way." Then, "On second thought, let them come—it'll be fun to sneer at them while Cpl. Mo is receiving his award."

For lack of anything else to say, Capt. Picard said, "See you in a couple of days," and then cut the line. He then leaned back in his chair and put his hands over his face, thinking about how much his head hurt. That, and how happy he was someone had invented artificial gravity so he could rock in his chair.

"Riker to Picard."

"Yes, Numero Uno?"

"You have a second-high priority it's-a-damn-shame-your-first-officer-can't-see-its-contents type of incoming call."

"Thank you, Will."

"No, thank you." Again, the line went dead.

Computer locks, rabbit ears, etc. followed by, "Aaahhh, Capt. Picard, how nice to meet you at last," smiled a Romulan-dog.

No, no, that wasn't right. Jean-Luc tried to re-orient his thinking out of slur-central.

"Ambassador," he said simply.

"Ambassador Schwartz, Captain Picard," the Romulan pointed out.

"What can I do for you, Ambassador Schwartz?"

"Please don't look on me with suspicion, Captain. I have nothing but good intentions for our two governments. I have been monitoring your Comedy Contest and have noted that our representative, Sub-Lt. Curles, is in the lead. I must admit I was repulsed when he showed up with that Klingon-pig and that idiot Andorian, but I can't argue with results. And since they're only his assistants and won't be receiving the trophy, the Romulan Empire has found it within our hearts to tolerate the swine."

"I'm not so sure..." Picard stared, stopped and thought: Why bother?

"I just wanted to inform you that my ship will be rendezvousing with yours in two days for the awards ceremony. Don't worry, we've already had our passports stamped by Starfleet. Please make sure the banquet area is big enough for a small contingent of extraordinarily high-ranking officials so we can honor our champion. Also, see to it that his two riffraff assistants are kept out of the way." As expected, "On second thought, let them come—it'll be fun to put them in their place while Lt. Curles is receiving the award. Oh, and Captain, it would be a criminal shame if we found any rigging of the contest."

Again, "See you in a couple of days, Ambassador. Picard out." The connection was cut, but lest he sit idle and hold his head again, the familiar voice rang out.

"Riker to Picard."

"Go ahead and put the Andorian Ambassador through, Will."

"Yes, sir."

"Thank you, Number One."

"No, thank you, sir." But this time before the line went dead, Capt. Picard heard, "Ask him if he wants some suspense music."

"Would you get off my communicator before you break..." The line went dead.

Presently, "Ahh, Capt. Picard. So good to see you again," smarmed the Andorian Ambassador.

"I'm sorry, sir, but you have me at a disadvantage."

"Well, we'll have to have lunch sometime and catch up on old news, but as this call is costing me credits out the wazoo, let's cut out the pleasantries. I've been monitoring the Comedy Contest and have seen Laughing Lawrence, our representative, take the lead. I have to admit I was shocked when he was seen associating with that Klingon and Romulan riffraff, but even great comics sometimes need backup assistants. And since he is going to win the award, we've decided to allow him to continue using his assistants, strange as they are."

"Uh-huh," Capt. Picard almost grunted.

"I just wanted to let you know that my ship will be rendezvousing with yours in two days for the awards ceremony. Please make sure the reception area is large enough to accommodate Lawrence's family, well-wishers and bill collectors. Also, see to it that his two bizarre assistants are kept out." And as if on cue, "You know, it might be fun to heckle them—so go ahead and allow them to come. And Captain, I know we can rely on you not to play a rigged contest."

The Andorian's face vanished as the connection broke.

The room's buzzer buzzed. "Come," he instructed.

"Captain?" Counselor Troi said, entering the room. "I'm here because..."

Capt. Picard brightened. "Ah, Counselor, you sensed I was in some distress and came to find the problem, eh?"

"Um, well, actually I'm here because my niece in the Space Girl Scouts is selling space-cookies and I thought you might like a box or two. They're really yummy."

"Yes?" Picard asked, interested. Anything to get his mind off his impending doom. "What flavors does she have?"

"Only the best kind, Captain," Troi said while her eyes lit up excitedly. "She's got Cellulite Delight, a mixture of fats, preservatives and artificial flavors. Then there's Double Delight Cellulite, twice the fat and all the calories. There's also Chocolate Smores, chocolate covered spheroids of mushy fat. Then there's Double Xtra Chocolate Smores Deluxe, six times the fat with no protein value at all!" Her eyes sparkled with the feverish pitch.

Capt. Picard, however, looked a little green. "I think I'll pass for the moment, Counselor."

"Of course, Captain. I can see you're troubled. Hey, come to think of it, I can even sense it."

"That's very good of you, Counselor," Picard started.

"Wow," she interpreted, something that was happening a lot these days. "I can even sense what the rest of the bridge crew is feeling."

Capt. Picard opened his mouth, knew better by now and closed it before he was interrupted.

"But most of all I can sense these Cellulite Delights calling me—saying 'Eat me—Eat me—I'm so yummy!' Ohhh, how can I refuse a simple request like that?" She tore into a box and began gulping away, a "delighted" grin slapped on her face.

Picard pushed a button and said, "Commander Riker, would you please join me in my ready room."

A moment later the doors whooshed opened and Commander Riker swaggered in, his head arched to his right as that was where the greatest concentration of chemicals were stored.

"You wanted to see me, Captain?"

"Yes, Will. I'm calling a section-head meeting in fifteen minutes. Would you announce it, please?"

"Sure thing, sir," Number One said, taking a gander at the seated figure of Counselor Troi and the ring of chocolate around her mouth.

"Oh, and Will."

"Sir?" he said, imitating a classic stance by throwing his head over his shoulder while seeming to keep on moving.

"Commander, I hope you're not upset with me for fingering you to start a poker game last night."

Commander Riker grinned boyishly, "Not at all, sir. Plucking those pigeons of nearly nine thousand credits was the highlight of my week. But if I could ask you one thing sir..." he trailed.

"Yes, Will?"

"If you're going to send me fresh meat to skin, then please give me some advanced warning next time—by the time the Ferengi and Andorian found my digs, I was already fooling around with a babe."

"My apologies, Number One. Advance warning next time. Got it."

"Thanks, sir." He turned and swaggered out the door. As they were closing, Capt.

Picard immediately heard him yelling at the top of his voice, "OKAY! LISTEN UP! THERE'S GOING TO BE A SECTION HEAD MEETING IN…"

Precisely half an hour later, Capt. Picard walked into the Conference Room, which was adjacent to the Adjacent Room, right next to the Hurry-Up-And-Wait Room, which also doubled as a closet whenever they had to wear jackets, which wasn't often. His senior officers were assembled around the table.

Commander Riker was admiring his reflection on the space-windows, practicing a smile that reminded Capt. Picard of his cousin. Commander Data was again applying a greasy mustache to his white complexion, looking at himself with a compact. Mr. La Forge and Mr. Worf were playing with some Legos, and Dr. Crusher was comforting Counselor Troi on her chocolate breakdown.

With an abrupt "Ah-heh-heh-hem!" from Capt. Picard, the Legos were put away, the choco-tears had stopped and all self-absorption matters strewn aside in order to pay attention to the Captain. A habit they'd best not forget if they know what's good for them, Capt. Picard thought, taking his seat.

"Let's begin this meeting. I've already informed Commander Data of the particulars so he could work up possible scenarios and lengthen this chapter out."

Commander Data turned to his colleges and said, "Captain Picard received three transmissions half an hour ago, on Ultra-Private lines. These transmissions were from the Klingon, Romulan and Andorian Ambassadors, respectively. They were each calling to inform Captain Picard that they would be showing up in two days for the awards ceremony where they expected their representative and no one else to receive the 1st Place Award." Like any performer of the stage, Commander Data noticed his audience becoming bored—if Lt Worf's half-closed eyes were an indicator. To regain the initiative, he stood up, swung an arm behind his back, hunched over and began pacing, a cigar perched between the fingers of his free hand. Interest came back to the meeting.

"This may lead to quite a few problems, ladies and germs. True, the Klingon, Romulan and Andorian delegates are in the lead, but they are in first place as a team, not as individuals. Their Ambassadors believe their man is the key player with the other two being his assistants. And while I can play the spoons, who plays keys anymore?" Lt. Worf would have laughed had the joke not totally flown over his knotty head.

"Take your seat, Mr. Data," Capt. Picard said dangerously. To the rest, "What Mr. Data was trying to convey is that this contest could lead to serious trouble—and we're in the middle of it. We all know the Klingons and Romulans hate each other, but the Klingons hate the Andorians even worse.

"So what we're talking about here is an outbreak of war if individual members win or if the team wins. I'd like some suggestions, please."

"Obviously, they must lose," Lt Worf said.

"I've given that some serious thought, Lieutenant, and indeed they must lose. But I have also seen the acts competing against them. Who can beat them? And to arbitrarily disqualify them will have those Ambassadors down on us so fast we will be luckily if we are not permanently assigned to ground duty."

"We could always kill the comics," Lt. Worf stated simply.

"An admiral suggestion, Mr. Worf, but ever since I was exposed to a pacifism-ray in my youth, I've had to go out of my way from creating blood bathes."

"My condolences, sir," the Klingon returned with feeling.

"Mr. La Forge, do you have any comments?"

"I'm afraid I'll have to abstain, sir. You see, I like the comedians."

"I have an idea, Captain," Commander Riker put in. "How about we find a couple babes out of the Ensign-pool and introduce them to the comics. Nature can follow its course and the trio will forget their lines and probably start showing up late for their performances. I'd be happy to interview candidates for this assignment."

"I'm sure he would," muttered Lt. Worf.

Capt. Picard ignored the comment, concentrating on an animated whispered conversation between Dr. Crusher and Counselor Troi. "I'm afraid it would take too long for you to find suitable applicants, Will." The Captain was distracted again. Back and forth, whisper, whisper, whisper, point at Capt. Picard, giggle, whisper. No respect. Capt. Picard simply got no respect.

"Dr. Crusher, do you have some input?" Picard prompted.

A sly grin on her face, she said, "Captain, we know these three comedians must not win or it's likely to cause a war. Also, they must not lose to just anybody either as that'll be signs of rigging a contest and we might have a war again. Someone legitimate must win the contest, and as you say the other comics cannot compare to the trio, that leaves only one other person here who has a chance of winning the contest. That person, Captain, is you."

"I'm not a comedian, Doctor."

"Don't sell yourself short, Captain," Counselor Troi returned.

"He's already short," Mr. Worf whispered to Geordi, who promptly hid a grin.

Troi continued. "When Beverly and I spoke to Xavier last, he told a story of what you did for your Aunt Trudy's 70th birthday when you were only five years old." Dr. Crusher could hardly restrain her giggles.

"Meeting adjourned!" Capt. Picard announced, leaving in a huff and puff.

"I can't believe you told them that!"

"Believe it, bubby."

"What is it, Xavier? Do you enjoy making me suffer? All through the Academy you caused me problems. Why are you still doing it?"

"Hey, c'mon, Jean-Luc. It was a funny story. And you know my weakness for redheads."

"And blondes and brunettes as I recall."

"But of course."

"Xavier, if it wasn't for this force screen..."

"What?" he asked barring his teeth. "What would you do? Beat me up? Hurt me? Show me that you care in other violent ways? Now listen, buddy-boy, from what I've been able to piece together from your rantings you have to perform 'TRUDY'S DIDDY" to avert a war. Correct?"

"Correct," Jean-Luc sighed.

"Then what's the problem?"

"I'm a gown man dammit! To perform the diddy is... is... beneath me!"

"Do you want war or not?"

"But—but—but..."


	6. Chapter 6: What I'll do

**Chapter 6: What I'll do to avoid Galactic War #1 – sheesh!**

 **Disclaimer** : This is an amateur fan publication and is not intended to infringe on the rights of Paramount Pictures or any other holders of copyrights on STAR TREK.

 **DAY 5**

Clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap!

"Thank you, Svemood of the Smith delegate!" Commander Data said taking the mic away from the charred wrist. A pity, he thought, recalling how he had warned those Smithonians about spraying a live electrical device with a liquid. Oh well, you live, you sometimes learn. The show must go on!

"A man walks into a barber shop and asks the barber how many people are in front of him. The barber says there are five ahead of him. The man leaves. The next day he comes back and asks the same question and the barber gives him the same answer. He leaves. This happens for four more days whereupon the barber asks a shoeshine boy to follow the man. The shoeshine boy comes back and says the man goes to the barber's house."

Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!

"Thank you!" The crowd was beginning to appreciate his humor by now, and he was finally developing his own shtick.

"What do geneticists get when they cross an elephant and a rhino?" The crowd didn't know. "Elephino!"

Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!

"I went out with a girl the other night who had a beauty mark on her cheek. I feel so bad because I swatted it."

Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho!

"Okay, okay, quiet down or I will bring that last Smithonian back for an encore."

Hah, hah, hah, hah!

"Seriously, now, here is the group you have all been waiting for. The Masters of Disaster, the Riders of the Doomsday Clock! Cpl. Mo, Laughing Laurence and Sub-Lt. Curles! Let us have a big round of applause!"

Clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap!

Ten-Forward was packed as the rumor of real comedy had traveled through the ship. Geordi had had a hard time finding a table. But fortunately, Commander Riker had the foresight to send an Ensign to hold a table large enough to accommodate Mr. La Forge, Mr. Worf, Dr. Crusher, Counselor Troi, Commander Riker and the Ensign babe. Not to mention the spheroid of beer that Geordi had brought knowing by now not to bother Guinan for a drink if he wanted to see it that day.

The spotlight illuminated the side of the stage where Cpl. Mo ambled out very slowly.

He wasn't alone, but he was in the lead.

"From your descriptions, Jean-Luc, I thought that these three comedians weren't hurt very much."

Capt. Picard looked at his cousin, then back at the Klingon corporal advancing for the microphone. "They weren't, but at a subtle suggestion from Dr. Crusher I decided to minimize their performance today."

Cpl. Mo and the other two were indeed going to have their time cut short as they could barely move in the numerous casts covering arms, legs, entire torsos. All three wanted to get this over with for one very important reason: they all needed some new cutouts made in the casts so they go relieve themselves in the Different Species Bathroom. It also didn't help that most of their vision was covered with a bandage, an ice-pack, and even the remains of a chocolate-covered pizza crust.

Capt. Picard smirked as they walked stiffly, having to tip to one side to advance a leg. Dr. Crusher had even thought to brace the arms outstretched, so there was no grabbing the microphone.

Cpl. Mo tipped his way to the mic first and began his joke. "Little Miss Glflnarb sat on a chair, eating her curds and whey. Along came an Andorian who sat down beside her and said, 'Give me the bowl, now!'

"Har, har, har, har, har, har, har, har!"

The Romulan, hot on his tracks (figuratively speaking), pushed him over once the rhyme was finished. Cpl. Mo wobbled to a rest on his back as Curles began his spiel. "A Klingon goes to school one day where a professor, or what passes for one, asks him what he would like to do when he grows up. The boy says he wants to be the first Klingon to land on the sun. The professor tells him that he can't land on the sun because he would burn up long before he got there. Whereupon the Klingon boy says he knows that is true, which is why he planned on going at night"

Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!

The Andorian nearly lost his balance and bumped into the Romulan, who immediately lost his own balance and fell to the stage, wobbling for a few seconds before stopping on his face. The Andorian had regained his balance, scooted for the mic that was within an arm's length... and promptly slid on the banana peel that had fallen from the Smithonian's vest pocket only a few paragraphs back. True, the peel was a bit singed from an excess of stray electrons, but it still retained its slippery edge.

The Andorian's feet slid out from underneath him and kept going an additional three feet up in the air to where the horizontal to the floor and he slammed down on the stage. "Help," he wheezed out. "I've fallen and I can't get up."

Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, hah!

Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho!

Har, har, har, har, har, har, har, har!

Yuck, yuck, yuck, yuck!

The crowd went nuts, boldly saying this was their best feat yet. They were sure to win the prize. Would you get your stinking foot off my tentacle? Listen, if any of you Klingons pinch me anymore, I'm going to rip your arms off!

Commander Data came back on stage, followed by six stage hands who picked up the "stiffs" and carried them off stage. The comics were smiling to the audience as they left.

The audience responded in kind.

Clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap!

Bravo!

Encore! Encore!

"That was the Mavericks of Mayhem! I have to admit they are the comics to beat this year." Commander Data paced the stage again. "The next group is going to give it a serious effort, and although they did not participate in the initial rounds, as your emcee it is within my discretion to bring on special honorary guests. And since I could be fired if I did not bring him on, I am pleased to bring you Captain Jean-Luc Picard, a man who I am proud to work for—and that is not saying much! And his singing and dancing partner, the notorious scoundrel, Xavier-Octavius Picard!"

A polite clap, clap, clap sounded from an unsure audience. They wanted to see the contest conclude. They had the winners marked in their heads. What the hell did a Starship Captain know about comedy anyway? All right! I warned you, Klingon! Your ass is toast!

The stage went dark. The audience went silent. In the background a sound came up on the cool space-speakers. Interestingly, the sound was like a scratchy recording from an ancient record of an instrumental piece played for little children in France, Earth. No one knew that the MP3 version of the song was clear, and that the space-speakers were not as cool as the Engineers wanted everyone to think.

The spotlight came on in the center of the stage. There stood Capt. Picard in a long grey overcoat that went down and covered his feet. His expression was grim, a contrast to the simple, "happy" music wafting through the crowd. Lt. Worf was consulting his music book, trying to figure out which setting this music was appropriate for.

A second spotlight came on the side of the stage as Xavier-Octavius shuffled onto stage, his feet not leaving the confines of the grey overcoat which went up to his neck. He took a position next to Capt. Picard and stared at the audience. "Ready?" he whispered.

"Let's do it already," Capt. Picard whispered back. Then, "Lights!"

Immediately the lights went off and the audience was left in the dark. The crowd could hear the overcoats being taken off and a few seconds later the spotlights were back.

On stage, in front of a giggling holovision director beaming a nearly bald Picard's and a bearded Picard's likenesses to a crowd of nearly 50 billion sentients, Capt. Picard stood in a pink tutu that went from his neck to the pink slippers on his feet. This was complemented with frills around his waist. He still wore his blank expression, as if cut off from the real world. Which he wished he was. His brother was wearing the same get-up, although his was colored rose with dashes of pink.

The music rose in pitch and in the background Xavier-Octavius was dancing, his legs getting some impressive height for a 65-year old ballet dancer. Capt. Picard began a slow shuffle, staying inside his own spotlight perimeter.

To the amazement of his command staff, Capt. Picard began singing!

"I'm a little butterfly

"That floats and flies all day

"Fly, fly, fly, fly all day!" Xavier joined him for the chorus.

Capt. Picard almost cried at the PAIN this was causing his ego. Commander Riker, though, sat in his seat with a blank look, his mouth agape.

"I'm a little butterfly

"Without a care while I fly all day

"Fly, fly, fly, fly all day!" Xavier again.

Lt. Worf could not find a situation for this music. He began taking notes on his personal padd. He would need to find this music, cross-reference to this situation, and then be able to play it at a moment's notice when the need arose. Like when the Borg next attacked. Or when the ship came under attack by another vessel, which knowing how many times the Enterprise had been attacked on a fairly regular basis, shouldn't be too much longer.

"I'm a little butterfly

"Exploring the world as I fly all day

"Fly, fly, fly, fly all day!"

Commander Riker couldn't believe his eyes, or his ears. The Captain had rhythm! Counselor Troi and Dr. Crusher could no longer control their laughter and it came out in shrieks and snorts.

"I'm a little butterfly

"Seeing the mysteries of life as I fly all day

"Fly, fly, fly, fly all day!"

Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!

Ho-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho!

Giggle-giggle-giggle-giggle!

Har-har-har-har-har-har-har!

Bwahahahaha!

"I'm a little butterfly

"That floats and flies all day

"Then I get eaten by a bug...and die!" both men sang to the audience while standing motionless in the spotlight.

Har-har-har-har-har-har-har-har-har!

Ho-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho!

Giggle-giggle-giggle-giggle!

Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-hah!

Bwahahahahahahah!

Har-har-har-har-har!

Titter-titter-titter-titter-titter!

Capt. Picard and Xavier-Octavius took in the audience's reaction. There was a laugh riot going on, worse than the others. Capt. Picard knew he would have to replace a lot of tables before the day was over. And get some ice for Guinan's hand as he saw her sock another Klingon in the kisser.

Emcee Data came on stage while the two performers picked up their overcoats and put them on—anything to cover up this embarrassment.

"If this doesn't work," Capt. Picard told his cousin, "I'm going to kill you."

Commander Data took the microphone and said, "By unanimous agreement from the judges, and by the perfect score of 10 on the LAUGH-O-NIETER, I bring you the winners of the first ever Intergalactic Comedy Contest! Captain Jean-Luc Picard and his cousin, Xavier-Octavius Picard"

Clap-clap-clap-clap-clap-clap-clap-clap-clap-clap-clap-clap-clap-clap-clap-clap!

Commander Data began to sing, to sing a song—which would've lasted all day long had the contest trophy not been brought on stage. The trophy was an enormous silver-plated mug with the inscription, 'TO CAPTAN JEAN-LUC PICARD AND HIS COUSIN, XAVIER-OCTAVIUS PICARD — A COUPLE OF QUICK WITTED LUGS. HOPE YOU DON'T MIND HAVING YOUR ACT STOLEN BY HALF THE GALAXY, THE OTHER HALF RELIVNG YOUR GLORIOUS MOMENTS OVER AND OVER BECAUSE THEY HAD THE FORESIGHT TO RECORD IT.'

"To you gentlemen, I give the prize," said the familiar voice of one of the judges.

"Q!" Capt. Picard nearly sneered while at the same aghast. Only exceptional Starfleet Captains could do both at once.

Q grinned ear-to-ear like a satisfied cat and said, "Happy Birthday mon Cap-eee-tan."

"Do you know this person, Jean-Luc?" Xavier asked.

"Yes, I know this creature. He is part of the Q-Continuum, but you can watch that in some Star Trek: Next Generation repeats. Now tell me how you know this jerk-weed."

Xavier said, "This is the person that not only stuck me in jail, but also offered me a way out by finding the advanced Packleds, saying he represented the Federation."

Capt. Picard gabbed Q-ball's tuxedo and asked, "What are you up to this time, Que?"

"Why, nothing cruel, I assure you. Smile for the holovision, Captain." All three of them put their arms around each other and smiled for the holovision crowd of nearly 50 BILLION sentients. How embarrassing.

When the holovision crew departed, Q-Bert continued, "I just wished to give you a Birthday present, Jean-Luc. Something to think back on in years to come and remember fondly."

"By nearly involving the Federation and this ship in a galactic war?!"

"Smile for the camera," Xavier-Octavius said, knowing the value of good public relations as another holo-vision crew came up.

Click, click, click.

Then, "What war are you talking about, Jean-Luc?"

"You know damn well what I'm talking..."

"Sir," Commander Riker pushed his way through the throng of well-wishers.

"Yes, Numero Uno?"

"The Klingon, Romulan and Andorian Ambassadors have all sent their congratulations on a fine performance, and expressed their regrets citing that since their representative didn't win, they won't be coming for the banquet."

"There, you see, Jean-Luc. There's no cause for anyone to cry war. How can you have a war if no one comes?" the Q-ster smirked.

Capt. Picard had to think about all of what had happened over the last few days before he could see the joke in it. He had to do that at a later date because now he was too self-conscious of the pink tutu underneath the overcoat.

Dr. Crusher and Counselor Troi came up to him and kissed him on the cheek, complementing him on a job well done. Mr. La Forge told him he hadn't ever laughed that hard in all his days and he would be extremely grateful if Capt. Picard didn't fire him. And Lt. Worf asked him if he needed the ditty he sang on stage entered into the archive of music Mr. Worf carried on his person at all times.

The Mother Superior and two other nuns stormed their way into Capt. Picard's "inner-sanctum," looked around at the audience, saw the pink tutu nudging out from under the overcoat, saw the other nuns trashed in the corner of the bar and said, "We are not amused."

"Q-Alini," Capt. Picard started. "Were the space nuns part of your plan?"

Sigh. "No. Unfortunately they were a part of fate and to get rid of them would disrupt the future too much."

"Damn."

Thankfully, the end of this story!


End file.
